Chapter 18: The Mighty Eighth

1130 hrs Tuesday, April 9th 2019. Bury St Edmunds

DAY 9

“I’ve been married to Jean for nearly twenty-five years and I still don’t know what she’s on about half the time,” Jack said with a resigned shake of his head. We were driving along Mill Road on the way to Jack’s QM store building on the small industrial estate at Nightingale Close. “What has Molly told you about this evening’s gathering at Rougham Airfield?” he asked.

“Not much, just that it is a Second World War re-enactment society event.”

“The ladies, Gawd bless ‘em, never really understand why and what our re-enactment group is all about.” Jack paused to concentrate on his driving as a nun on a bicycle, safe in the hands of Jesus but weaving all over the road, made her way towards us sometimes on our side of the carriageway. “What do you know about the Second World War? I assume you were taught some history at school.” He continued, as the nun eventually passed by on the other side.

I did know something about the war but not from school. History at school, well as far as those of us who left at sixteen, ended with the Stuarts. We were given a swift run through British, or rather English, history from the Romans through the Anglo Saxons, the Normans and Tudors, to the Stuarts. After that history was only for those pupils who were doing ‘A’ levels for Uni.

“I know about Dunkirk, the battle of Britain, the Blitz, Alamein, D Day, and the bridge on the River Kwai,” I said, and then dredged my memory for other, older, black and white, war films I had seen. “The Dambusters, The Cruel Sea, Cockleshell Heroes, Pork Chop Hill.”

Jack sighed. “Pork Chop Hill was the Korean War, Josh, but I’m surprised you know that much. Those lefty leaning liberals who run the education system are ashamed of much of our history, and great swaths are left out or minimalized, particularly the massive contribution the USA made during World War Two. Suffolk, in fact all of East Anglia, was chock full of airfields from where the RAF and USAAF, the United States Army Air Force, flew bombing missions against Germany. The re-enactment society I belong to remembers, and commemorate, the USAAF personnel who served, flew, fought, and died, from these airfields, and on Memorial Day we hold a ceremony and lay flowers at the plaques and memorials at all of those former airfields. The British Legion and Royal Air Force Association lay wreaths of poppies on Remembrance Day. The Ninety Fourth Bomb Group flew from Rougham Airfield here at Bury St Edmunds. Ninety Four BG was controlled by Eighth Bomber Command of the USAAF, popularly known as The Mighty Eighth, and flew their first bombing mission on June the thirteenth, nineteen forty three. “ We arrived at the small industrial estate where Jack had his storehouse and pulled to a stop outside a two-storied building with a large sign attached to the door.

The Mighty Eighth Re-enactment Society

We got from the car and Frank pulled out his mobile phone and keyed in a number. Someone inside the building must have picked up.

“Beryl, I’m outside. Let us in and then reset the alarm,” He said.

I heard the door lock click, and then Frank and I pushed through the door into a lobby. “This building has a humidity and temperature controlled environment,” Frank explained. “I have to allow the levels to balance before opening the inner door.” He saw my surprise at the level of protection. “There are garments in this building over eighty years old. Most of the clothing worn by our re-enactors are copies made from these originals. They are priceless to archivists and historians. The fact is, we are more a museum than a hobby club.”

The temperature and humidity levels balanced, allowing Frank to press a switch. The door in front of us swung open and we entered a large room where hundreds of polythene covered garments were hanging from racks that ran around the walls. A chubby, fair-haired, woman in her mid-forties was sat at a sewing machine. She looked up as we came in.

“Hullo, Frank, love. Is this a recruit for the club?”

“No Beryl, he just needs a uniform for tonight’s event. Can you find him something that won’t take too long to alter? I know you have plenty on your plate and will want to get away early this afternoon.”

Beryl got from her machine and eyed me up and down as if I was an entrant at Crufts Dog Show.

“He’s about a standard size, not too tall or too fat. Shouldn’t take long to have him suited. He looks like officer material so I will sort out some officer pinks and greens to make him look presentable, not that you aren’t presentable already, my love.” She actually pinched my cheek when she said that.

“Leave him be, Beryl. Josh is spoken for,” Frank said, and then winked at me.

Beryl grinned. “Never mind, I’ll cop on tonight. I’m going as a USO girl and will have to knock the fellas off me with a stick!”

She walked along the rows of polythene covered uniforms and minutes later returned with an arm full of uniforms. “Pinks and Greens, the sexiest uniform ever designed. No wonder all the girls wore American knickers when the Mighty Eighth flew into town.” She saw my look of incomprehension and explained. “American knickers -- one yank and they’re off! I’ll be wearing American knickers tonight so let’s see how you measure up.” She laughed and dug me in the ribs with her elbow before reverting to being a seamstress rather than a temptress. “This coat has captain’s bars and bombardier’s wings, and you are the right age to be a captain. Try the coat, and there should be a pair of trousers among this lot to fit you without too much altering. If the coat is too tight I’ll look for an Ike jacket.”

“To be historically correct there wouldn’t have been Ike jackets when the Eighth first arrived in Britain,” Jack said. “But as we commemorate the Mighty Eighth’s stay in the UK so yes, if there no suitable tunic available then an Ike jacket will do nicely.”

I tried on the dark brownish green wool coat (the ‘greens’), a four-pocket mid-thigh tunic type garment not unlike a British army officer’s tunic but of a finer blend of wool, and then tried on the khaki, with a slightly pinkish hue, trousers (the “pinks”).

“I have some replica shirts and ties but can’t fix you up with shoes. World War Two era brown brogues are like gold, but you can get away with black. No one is going to be looking at your feet.” Beryl said. “I haven’t got any aircrew officers ‘crusher’ caps to fit but have plenty of overseas caps. It just needs the correct insignia fixing to it.” She took measurements and then carried off the pinks and greens to alter on her sewing machine while Jack gave me more information about the forthcoming evening’s celebration.

“The Ninety Fourth wasn’t the first USAAF bomb group to operate from Rougham Airfield but they were the first who were equipped with the B Seventeen, the Flying Fortress. Their first mission was June the thirteenth, nineteen forty three, and we have held the celebration/commemoration on that day since nineteen seventy, with former members of the Ninety Fourth and the Mighty Eighth and their family members attending. As the years have passed fewer veterans attend, and we haven’t had any for several years although family members of men who were stationed here sometimes turn up. This year we are privileged and honoured to welcome a veteran of the Mighty Eighth, a former Master Sergeant, Edwin Kenzo Bruckmayer, who was a waist gunner and flew thirty-four missions before being shot down and captured. He is ninety- five years old and as tough as old boots. He is over here visiting a grandson who is stationed the US Air Force base at Mildenhall. When we discovered that there was a veteran of the Mighty Eighth here in the UK we arranged the event earlier so that he could attend. This is an extra special commemoration as Edwin is probably the last of the breed. We are pulling out all the stops, with other similar themed re-enactment groups and societies joining us at the airfield. It is going to be a night to remember.”

Beryl handed me my uniform. “All neat and tidy, Josh, Captain Josh,” she said and saluted. “All you need are some shoes; brown if possible, but black are OK.” She turned to Jack. “I’ll see you this evening at Rougham Airfield. Are the Anglo Sisters making an appearance?” she said.

“Try keeping them away,” Jack said.

Beryl returned to her sewing machine as we left the building and then drove back to Castle Road.

There was a pleasant smell of lavender when I entered #27. Molly was in the kitchen and called out. “The balm is made but has to settle for several hours. It will be ready for use by the time we get back from Rougham Airfield.”

I entered the kitchen and she kissed me warmly. “Let’s see you in your uniform. On second thoughts don’t strip- off in front of me as I will most likely leap on you and then we will never make it to the show this afternoon. The balm is also an aphrodisiac and I’ve been inhaling the fumes for the last hour and I’m as randy as hell. I’ll go for a cold shower before I give in to my lust and ravish you.” She gave me another warm kiss and left for the shower. That was just as well as I was still red raw and sore in the dick department and recovering from the sexual excesses of the previous day and night.

Molly returned twenty minutes later towelling her hair. “It’s true what they say about a cold shower,” she said. “It turns the horniest human into a monk, or in my case a nun, and now there will be none until we get back home tonight. We will have eats at the airfield, there’s a barbecue arranged by the re-enactment club, so I don’t have to do anything in the food preparation line.” She looked at her watch. “We can have a snack in an hour and then get ready. A cab will pick us up as there will be an amount of drinking and neither I nor Jack want to be had up for drink-driving, and besides, we will be tired after dancing the night away.”

“Dancing?”

“Oh yes, and not just the waggling of bums that passes for dancing these days. There will be Jive, Swing and Jitterbugging, plus the more sedate foxtrot, quickstep and waltz.”

“I’m not much of a dancer, Molly.”

“You are a great horizontal dancer, Joshua,” she said and gave me a full-blooded kiss with a length of searching tongue. It might have led to vigorous groin to groin combat but there came a knock on the door. Molly broke off the embrace and opened the door to Jean Carstairs.

“The taxi’s booked for four pm,” Jean said. “We have to pick up Janice as Ted Barnaby is at a conference of senior police officers in Cambridge, but he will be at the airfield before the end of proceedings to take her home.”

Molly nodded. “That’s fine. Joshua and I will have an early lunch and then get our glad rags on. I can’t wait to see Joshua in his uniform.” Jean leaned in to Molly and whispered something in her ear that had Molly blushing red as a radish.

“You, Jean Carstairs, have got an extremely dirty mind,” she said.

Four pm arrived as did the hired car. I was a bit embarrassed dressed in my USAAF uniform, but had to admit it was certainly as smart and eye-catching a uniform I had ever seen.

Molly came down the stairs wearing a raincoat over whatever get up she had on underneath. Her hair was waved and I wondered how she managed to set waves in her straight hair. She looked delicious, and I heard the whisper of stockings as she crossed the room and guessed she was wearing suspenders. Kushti! I didn’t like to ask and didn’t have time to lift her skirts to find out as the taxi was waiting. Any plan I might have had had of discovering what lay beneath when in the car was kiboshed by having to sit between Frank and the driver. Molly and Jean had saved a place on the backseat for Janice Rawlins who lived in Thurston, which was on the route to Rougham Airfield. Janice got in the back with the other two girls. Like them, she wore a raincoat over her dress and a headscarf over her hair. I knew that Assistant Chief Constable Ted Barnaby and Janice Rawlins were an item but wondered if he also lived in the quaint cottage from which Janice had exited.

We drove onto Rougham Airfield, rows of solar lights showing the way to the car park surrounding the WWII aircraft hangar. Rougham Airfield, and the original wartime control tower, was still operational. The local flying club took off from and landed on the one original runway of the three built during the war. The control tower now stood bathed in the lights from uplighters, while music drifted out from the interior of the hangar and there was a hubbub from the people milling about.

“Right girls,” said Janice as we got from the car, “the show begins in ten minutes. Let’s find our dressing room.”

I looked at Molly in surprise. “Dressing room?”

“Yes, Janice, Jean and I are one of the main attractions. But don’t worry, Jack will look after you, although you should be looking after him as he is a Major.”

I hadn’t taken much notice of Jack when sitting in the taxi as I was too busy gazing at Molly in the rear view mirror. But now I saw that Jack was dressed in pinks and greens, with a row of medal ribbons on his chest but no wings insignia other than an air corps lapel badge.

“I’m not aircrew but the Executive Officer to a squadron commanded by a Lieutenant Colonel,” Jack said. “My character would have served in the First World War which is why I have some medal ribbons, ‘fruit salad’, as it was known in the day. Gold braid on the peak of a senior officer’s cap was known as ‘scrambled egg’.” As he got from the car Jack put on his peaked cap. “Aircrew officers wear ‘crusher caps’, hats with the stiffener removed so they can fit a headset over the cap, but as an executive officer my hat still has the stiffener around the brim.”

The three girls had disappeared and Jack and I joined the crowd in the hanger, one end of which had a raised stage where an orchestra of about thirty players were tuning their instruments. The hangar was draped in the Stars and Stripes interposed with the Union Jack, the French Tricolour and the flags of Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Poland. There were other flags that I did not recognise but supposed them flags of other war-time Allies. The crowd increased and then then came a roll on the drum from the stage and a tall well-built man dressed in evening wear strode up to the microphone front and centre on the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Rougham Airfield, the wartime home of several, particularly the Ninety Fourth, bomb groups of the ‘Eighth Bomber Command’, later to become the Eighth United States Army Air Force, The Mighty Eighth!” He paused as cheers and shouts rang out. “We are here tonight to remember with undying gratitude the sacrifice made by many young men of the Mighty Eighth. They gave up their lives for freedom. We also remember and are grateful to those who survived, and we are privileged to welcome one of those here tonight. Master Sergeant Edwin Kenzo Bruckmayer!” A spotlight swung onto a venerable old gentleman dressed in a be-medalled WWII US Army uniform sitting in a wheelchair at the side of the stage. As the light fell on him he struggled to his feet and saluted. The place went wild.

The MC put up his hands to quieten the crowd. “To celebrate the presence of Master Sergeant Bruckmayer at our remembrance of the Mighty Eighth it is only right and proper we have the National Anthem of the US of A. Please be upstanding for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.”

As he was speaking Janice Rawlins had walked up to the microphone. She was dressed in a military-style uniform of a khaki, brass-buttoned, mid-thigh length tunic cinched around her waist by a wide leather belt, and a short khaki skirt, the hem several inches above the knee. A side cap worn at a jaunty angle and a pair of black patent leather shoes with high heels completed her ensemble. She stood silently and still for a heartbeat before opening her mouth and singing, a cappella.

Her voice was strong, melodic, sweet, and obviously professionally trained.

Not many, including my own, national anthems have the power to stir my blood. The only thing I envy the French for is La Marseillaise, but without conscious effort I stood, a lump in my throat, ramrod straight and saluted in the American style with the palm of my hand facing down. All those wearing uniform, including Master Sergeant Edwin Kenzo Bruckmayer, did the same.

When Janice finished there was a second or so absolute silence, and then the place erupted into a barrage of clapping and cheering. When the noise subsided the band broke into an up-tempo tune that Frank told me was called ‘American Patrol’.

“They are one of the best Glenn Miller tribute bands,” he informed me, pointing to the band on stage.

“Glen who?”

He clucked his tongue. “You youngsters are pig-ignorant when it comes to the big band era” He grinned, “As I was when I first joined the re-enactment society. Glenn Miller was a top bandleader in the States before the war, and when the USA entered the war he joined the USAAF. He organized the Glenn Miller Army Air Force Band and gave performances to the troops throughout the ETO, the European Theatre of Operations. His aircraft disappeared while flying over the English Channel on his way to Paris in December of forty-four.”

Jack and I made our way through dancing couples to the side of the stage. There was a crowd of people around the Master Sergeant, asking questions, taking selfies, and requesting autographs. The Master Sergeant was in fine fettle, cracking jokes with the men and flirting with the women, but I noticed his minders, a pair of very attractive young women who were two of his eight great-grandchildren, made certain he stayed in his wheelchair as I’m sure he was ready to join the dancers on the floor.

I edged nearer to him and heard him say, in what I took to be a Texan accent. ‘I lost a lot of good buddies during the war; saw many of them go down in flaming Fortresses. They were no older than I was. We were hardly into our twenties and had barely lived a life. After surviving the war I made it my goal to live my life for them. I never forgot the faces and names of my dead buddies and hoped, by keeping their memory alive, they lived on in me. I did what they would have wanted to do had they lived. I found a sweet gal and got married, got a job that I enjoyed and worked hard, played hard, joined in community events and paid my taxes. Had kids and raised them up to respect themselves and all other folks; rich or poor, man or woman, black, white, and all the shades in between. I hope my dead buddies approve of how I’ve lived my life, as I’ll be joining them for sure sooner than later.’ He gave a great guffaw of laughter. What a wonderful human being was Master Sergeant Bruckmayer! If he was typical of the men who served in the Mighty Eighth then I was humbled, honoured, and privileged to be here commemorating, celebrating, and remembering them.